One of Those Tuesdays
by Parnassus
Summary: Tag to 3x11 Mystery Spot: What happened after the boys left that motel for the last time?


**Summary: Whatever happened in the days after Sam closed the door to that motel room? In my opinion, the show moved on too quickly and this is my take on how the following week might have gone. As is becoming the norm in my pieces (should I be at all disturbed by this steady development?), it features a healthy dose of whumpage. So enjoy the humble offering and PLEASE do let me know whatcha think...good or bad, I'm a big girl, I can take it ;) My first SPN fic so I need feedback guys! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own the boys...and that's probably a good thing. Just for fun and all that jazz...**

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It had been four days.

Four days since we'd left Broward County and the Trickster in the dust. Four days of my brother's anxious fidgeting and practically clinging to the back of my coat, barely leaving my side long enough to let me use the bathroom in peace, and casting nervous glances in every direction anytime we weren't inside the Impala.

And anytime they weren't keeping watch for…well whatever the hell he was watching for, they were glued to me. And not glued in the, _you're my awesome big brother and I worship the ground you walk on_ kind of way. More like a disconcerting toss up between _if I don't keep eyes on you 24/7 the invisible bomb inside your brain will activate, _and _you're not real and I'm gonna have to gank your imaginary ass_.

Needless to say, my patience was wearing thin. Because I knew that look. It was the same look I'd followed Sam around with for almost a week after he'd…after I'd brought him back.

I hadn't even known I was doing it until Sam finally broke down and commented that my googly eyes were creeping him out – or something to that effect. But at least then he'd understood the reason I couldn't seem to unglue myself.

I'd tried to coax Sam into spilling the beans about the conjoined-twin act but so far he'd only shrugged me off or changed the subject. I knew I had died, that had to have done a kind of number on him, but we'd found the Trickster and everything had gone back to normal. Right? My nagging only seemed to upset him further so I decided to give him his space.

Didn't change the fact that he'd damn near had a panic attack earlier that morning when I'd gone out for breakfast and he'd woken to an empty motel room.

I'd walked in on him viciously cramming clothes into his dilapidated duffel with a terrifyingly blank expression creasing his features. My entrance had startled him badly and before I could even blink I found myself staring down the muzzle of a gun.

Sam's expression had actually frightened me. Stony and blank as a sheet of white paper. There was no emotion in the way he held the gun, finger balanced coolly over the trigger. Nothing holding him back. I'd never seen my little brother look quite like that. I wasn't a fan.

I'd held up one hand and a box of donuts in wary defense and convinced him to lose the weapon. After I was no longer in danger of being blown away I'd tried to break a little of the tension with a lame joke about how I promised to give him the first donut and that pastry negotiations didn't require a weapon's discharge.

Sam had just stared, eyes wide and disbelieving before he whispered my name. Broken. He sounded broken. I decided right then I'd had it. _This had gone on long enough and too fucking bad if Sam didn't want to talk_.

I was just about to tell him so when that cold expression on his face literally crumpled and he'd practically fallen into me, crushing the air from my lungs as his gigantic arms wrapped around me.

He drew a suspiciously unsteady breath before gasping into my neck, "Dammit, Dean. Don't…don't do that."

For a moment I was tempted to snark, _"What? Feed you?"_, but instead decided to humor him.

"Do what, Sammy?" His hot breath tickled my neck as he exhaled shakily.

The death grip on my shirt lessened and he finally drew back, eyes wet and breaths slightly erratic.

"Just…don't."

I placed my own hands on his shoulders and fixed him directly before asking, "Sam," He dodged my gaze but I persisted. "What did the Trickster do? I mean…what _else_ did he do?"

He sighed wearily before pushing away from my grasp. Tired. My baby brother looked so goddamn tired. Sam scrubbed a hand over his face before returning to his duffel. "We should get going," he said. Emotions once again safely locked down and stowed away. He was getting way too good at that in my expert opinion.

My temper threatened to flare but instead I clenched my fists and grabbed my own bag. _Fine. You might be stubborn Sammy, but you learned from the best. _

Bobby had called earlier with a potential job in South Point Nebraska so we dumped our bags in the trunk and were on the road less than ten minutes later.

That was another thing that didn't sit quite right. Bobby. He'd almost been as shaken up as Sam when I'd called him three days ago to let him know all about the Trickster status.

He'd recovered effectively enough and evaded my inquiries with a crotchety grunt, but not before he made sure I knew that if we didn't stop by his place soon he'd have both of our asses. I had too much to worry about with Sam's behavior without having to worry about Bobby's too. I'd brushed it off for the time being.

Sam was curled up next to the window and actually managed to doze for a good portion of the morning and afternoon. Any twitching I stilled with a hand on his shoulder. I drove a good ten hours before feeling my stomach knot with hunger and began rubbing my gritty eyes. We were still on the outskirts of the state but I decided to call it a day.

Half an hour later Sam and I were settled in a room for the night and he announced he was going to shower. The room actually had a small kitchen, complete with table and chairs and even a small living area. Snazzy.

Rifling through the four cabinets, I discovered three chipped mugs, a handful of tarnished silverware shoved against the back of a drawer and two pots. These guys really knew how to pamper their guests.

I soon discovered the reason for the tiny stove and various kitchen cutlery when I glanced out the window and came to the depressing realization that there was not a diner, or restaurant of any sort in sight. _Where were we in the friggin' Dark Age? _The only establishment boasting any form of sustenance was a rundown 7-11 about a block from the motel.

I made sure to holler my plans to Sam and after receiving a muffled acknowledgement from behind the door I grabbed my jacket, stuffed my pocket with a few bills and headed out.

I stocked up on water bottles, jerky and bags of chips for the road. Then I set about the task of rustling up some dinner.

To my surprise, the store actually hosted a decent selection of market items and I came away with a few boxes of spaghetti, two cans of chunky tomatoes, and a half-pound of ground sirloin only two days past its expiration that I snagged from the row of refrigerators. I made sure to grab a canister of parmesan and a six-pack. They even had a small selection of single pie slices displayed on a rack beside the register. I selected two apple and a peach. So maybe this hole in the wall wasn't so bad.

With four bags on one arm and the six-pack in the other I headed back in record time. Partly because I was worried about Sam being alone and partly because I had to admit, I was a little excited to start on dinner. I couldn't remember the last time Sam nor I had eaten a home-cooked meal.

A half an hour later I poured the bubbling sauce over the spaghetti and stirred carefully, the ground chunks of browned beef and tomato sauce tantalizing my sense of smell and causing my mouth to water.

Sam sat slumped at the table, damp hair sticking untidily to his neck, drooping eyes despondent and weary, gazing off into a space I couldn't see. You could fit a few groceries in the purple bags under his eyes. Kid hadn't slept, _really _slept in days.

His nights were terrible and he wasn't very good at hiding the fact. Never had been. He tossed and wrestled with the covers for an eternity before finally drifting off only to startle awake in a panic an hour later. It was Jessica all over again. Except this time I didn't even have a square one to go off of. I had zero squares. I was squareless.

Every time I was immediately by his side, trying to comfort or reason with or just get that fucking awful look off his face. And every time, there were those few seconds filled with borderline panic before recognition dawned and he hurriedly settled himself back into bed, assuring me that everything was fine.

I sighed as I shoveled a steaming portion of spaghetti onto a paper plate and set it down in front of Sam.

"Bon appetit," I smirked using my best Julia Child impression. Hey, you tuned into some weird shit during late-night TV in crappy motels.

Sam seemed to sort of shake himself awake. He glanced up and managed a pained smile, "Thanks."

He hadn't really eaten a proper _meal_ since we'd left either. In fact, I couldn't remember when he'd eaten last. There was only a momentary hesitation before he picked up his fork.

I watched as he dug into the noodles and swirled his first bite around the utensil. Satisfied, I spun to retrieve my own plate and the container of parmesan from the fridge.

For a few blissful minutes we ate in silence. I had to admit…it wasn't half bad.

It was only when I noticed that Sam's fork had stopped scraping against his plate that I glanced up from my own.

I was halfway hoping it was because he'd finished first for once. I only had to take one look at his face to know that wasn't the case. His fork, adorned with a few dripping noodles, was frozen midair and he was staring at his plate of food with an expression of disgusted horror.

His face had turned ashen and his throat worked convulsively.

"Sam?" I leaned over the table to reach for his wrist but he jerked away.

His fork clattered to the floor as he gagged, clamped a hand over his mouth, and barely escaped an epic nosedive when he tripped over his chair in his hasty retreat from the kitchen.

"Sammy!" My feet nearly tangled in my own chair as I rose to follow him. _Ah...sonovabitch__. _

I stopped midway between the hallway and the bathroom door when I saw Sam land hard on his knees in front of the toilet. He slammed the lid up and sat for a moment before retching violently, his whole frame trembling with the effort.

_So much for a home cooked meal, _I thought as I heard the results of my labor splashing into the porcelain.

I grimaced and grabbed a cloth to wet in the sink. If I wasn't worried before – and I was - this definitely sealed the deal.

Sam groaned before leaning his head back over the bowl. The heels of his hands pressed against the sides of the porcelain, fingers shaking visibly. He swallowed twice. Then his body shuddered as he threw up again. And again and again and…_shit. There was no way he had that much to puke. _

"Sam?" I moved around to rest my hand on his back. The other I used to brush away the damp strands of hair that clung to his neck before pressing the cold cloth to his overly hot skin. "Hey, Sammy?"

Sam rested his head on his forearm and fidgeted under my touch, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Man, you're really starting to freak me out here, ok?" I couldn't tell if he was even listening but the next second it didn't matter as he lurched back over the bowl and heaved, nothing coming up but stringy saliva and a little bile. But it didn't seem to matter as Sam's body continued to turn itself inside out.

The force of it was really scaring me, like he'd ingested poison or something. His knuckles turning an alarming shade of white as they gripped the sides of the toilet and the muscles in his arms and back convulsing and knotting so taut I was convinced they'd snap at any moment. He could barely draw a breath between the bouts of dry heaving.

"Sam, stop it!" I pleaded as my hand gripped the back of his t-shirt harder.

A strangled sob gurgled its way out of his throat, "C-can't…De...can't," and he leaned his head back over, retching miserably.

"Sam," I grasped both his shoulders and spun him so he was facing me with more force than I really meant to use. "I mean it. That's enough. You're going to tell me what the hell's the matter with you right now. Come on. Times up."

At first my brother looked a little startled by my outburst. His bloodshot eyes gazing fearfully into mine. Then he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and shifted his eyes around every inch of the room, every inch except for me. He was concentrating on breathing through his nose and then exhaling through his mouth in rapid bursts. I recognized it as a coping mechanism to try and prevent a breakdown. Like he was on the verge of a panic attack.

"Sammy?" I made a considerable effort to soften my voice. His gaze shifted once more before uncomfortably settling on me. Suddenly his face crumpled as he buried his shaggy head in his hands.

"I can't," he gasped.

"Why, Sammy?" I encouraged.

"No," he protested, wet eyes finally reaching for mine of his own accord. "No Dean, I can't…I can't do this."

"What do you mean? Can't do what? Tell me what's wrong? Why?" I catapulted the questions in rapid succession until Sam was practically curling in on himself again. I felt him shiver beneath my hand and when I looked back his eyes were brimming over with hot, desperate tears.

"I can't do this without you, Dean. M'not…not strong enough."

If I hadn't have been kneeling right next to him, I wouldn't have heard it. Sam's broken admission.

"Sammy…" I cupped my hand around the back of his neck, felt the soft hair brush over my fingers. "What are you talking about? I'm right here little brother."

Sam's haunted whisper nearly tore my heart in half. "No. You weren't. Not for a long time. Too long."

For a moment, I was silent. Letting it sink in. I felt numb. "Sam," I swallowed, finding the courage to continue. "What did the Trickster do?"

Two large tears trailed down Sam's flushed cheeks and I realized I was holding my breath.

"Dean, he killed you."

"Yeah," I swallowed. "You told me that part. You stopped the loop and he left us alone and I'm back…just as awesome as ever." I really wanted that to be the end of it. Would've given my left arm for that to be the end of it.

"No," he choked. "I stopped it, but you…you died anyway. And then I didn't wake up. I was supposed to wake up."

His voice was thick with despair and my chest was aching with dread. The silence lasted only a minute before Sam dropped his head, burying his face in the crook of his arm. He wouldn't look at me but I knew he was crying, his shoulders heaving and shaking with the intensity of his grief.

"You were dead, Dean. For six months…I was alone. You weren't here." There was an unbearable string of silence before Sam went back to cradling his head whispering, "You were dead…"

"Sam…" My throat constricted and suddenly I couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak.

Sam had gone completely silent, the ragged sound of his breathing the only thing tearing a hole in the suffocating quiet.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not yet. Not so soon. Still a little shell-shocked, I knelt and placed my hands on my brother's trembling shoulders. The contact seemed to jolt him out of his head and back into the land of the living.

Suddenly, he was pushing me off and forcefully scrubbing a hand over nose and mouth. Ignoring my protests, he brushed past me to flush the toilet, turned on the faucet and began splashing his face with the icy water.

"M'sorry…sorry," he mumbled. After toweling his face dry, he finally turned to look me. The despair had all but vanished from his face and he stood to his full height glancing down at me. That never got any less annoying.

"God, Dean. I'm sorry." He rubbed his thumb and forefinger between his eyes, shaking his head lightly.

"Sam," Now I was not only concerned and angry, I was confused. "What the hell do you have to be sorry about? _None_ of this is your fault."

"Just…this." He gestured sheepishly at the bathroom. "You worked hard on dinner and I pretty much ruined everything."

I sighed and rubbed at the dull beginnings of a headache. "Don't worry about it."

Sam shifted his feet in sorrowful embarrassment.

"Seriously, dude it's ok." Sam nodded resignedly and began shuffling back towards the tiny kitchen.

I stood looking after his retreating form. An intense sensation of hot rage and paralyzing fear pulsed through me all at once in a violent onslaught of warring emotions. Rage at what the Trickster had done to my little brother, had forced him to live through, at what he had done to me. Fear at the thought of Sam, all alone and unprepared…left by himself in a world he had always been too innocent for. Fear of what I knew was going to happen eventually anyway.

I didn't want to leave Sam. I didn't want to die.

I forced the thoughts back into the secret recesses of my chaotic mind and followed my brother into the kitchen area.

Sam was digging in his duffel. Producing a bottle of water, he slumped down on the edge of the bed before gulping half of it.

Just to give my restless hands something to do, I began gathering the plates from the table and shoving them into the trashcan. There was still a generous portion of pasta left in the pot but my appetite was pretty much shot. I dumped the rest in the garbage.

I needed to talk to him. Needed to find out what had happened in those months I was gone. But I couldn't seem to find the words. Every time I opened my mouth, they would lodge in my throat until I was forced to swallow them back down.

"Sammy…" It was all I could manage.

"You don't have to say anything Dean," he cut me off as if reading my mind. "I'm ok now, I'm good."

A steely resolve slid across his eyes. Determined. Fiery. Stubborn. All qualities I had grown to love _and _hate about my pain in the ass little brother.

His voice never wavered as he fixed me squarely in the eyes. "I'm getting you out of it, Dean. I did it once and I can do it again." Anger practically vibrated from his tense muscles as he unconsciously clenched the bed sheets, voice raw and gravelly from puking.

"I found him. I got you back. I'm not losing you again."

I forced down the lump that rose in my throat and hurriedly turned away to clear it.

"Well, if anyone can…" I looked back at him and managed a smile.

Then my mouth turned upside down when I remembered I still needed to be sure of something.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"What was all that…back there?" I gestured towards the bathroom. "Is my cooking that awful, or are you getting sick?"

"No," his eyes were doing that shifty thing again. "I just…a random flashback I guess. Just sort of sent me over the edge was all."

I didn't have the courage to ask. It didn't matter because Sam volunteered.

"It's stupid really, now that I think about it. One of those goddamn Tuesdays. You just kind of…exploded."

Sam swallowed uncomfortably and in spite of himself, turned a little green.

"And?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"And what?" Now he looked confused.

"Did it look cool," I grinned and waggled my eyebrows. "You know, like in the movies?"

I guess it was morbid, probably inconsiderate but I was genuinely curious. Sam stared dumbly up at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

Then without warning, a flash of dimples and suddenly he was laughing. Albeit, shakily…but still, honest to God laughing.

I watched in feigned indignation and badly disguised amusement as my brother's chuckling died down.

But he was still smiling when he looked back at me, hazel eyes shining.

"I really missed you, Dean."

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**End.**


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